My Name is Zack
by penvision
Summary: A character study of Zack Taylor. (transgender Zack) (ace Zack)
1. Clothes

He is twelve. He stands in front of his closet, topless except for the new sports bra that he has to wear. Because his body is changing. He is twelve and his body is changing and he wants it to stop. _Needs_ it to stop. Feels trapped in his skin; in the new folds of fat gathering at his hips, his thighs, his chest. Rips blouse after blouse, shirt after shirt, off of their hangers. _Too tight. Too small. Looser. Looser. Looser!_

His heart speeds up with every shirt bundled up and hurled onto the pile on his bed. Even the ones big enough, loose enough, to hide the new curves are not good enough. Because he can feel them underneath, knows what his body looks like underneath. Knows that this is just the beginning, and if it is this hard now, if he hates, _loathes_ his body, _himself_ this much now…

He rips another blouse off of its hanger; white with pink cherry blossoms and frilly cuffs; his mother's favorite. Clutches the soft lace in his fists. Bites back tears. He should want to wear it; is _supposed_ to want to wear it. Is _supposed_ to be excited about needing a bra. His throat tightens. He hates the bra; hates everything that it represents; femininity and puberty and social order. Hates that it helps make his chest look flatter. Hates that he _wants, needs_ his chest to look flatter.

His mother calls his name, her voice echoing down the hall. "Did you leave yet? If not you're going to be late to school!"

He steps into the newly barren closet and yanks the door closed behind him. Slams his back into the wall. Slides to the floor. Cries into the white blouse with pink cherry blossoms.


	2. Hair

He is thirteen. He stands in front of the bathroom mirror, scissors trembling in his fist, eight inch strands of black hair clinging to the white porcelain of the sink. He weaves his fingers through another lock of hair, pulls it taut. The scissors shake so badly with each snip that he is afraid to cut more than three inches closer to his scalp. He squeezes his eyes shut, feels the tears escape, feels them burn as they roll down his cheeks. Feels each strand of hair loosen as it slides past the blades.

He does not know why he wants his hair short, _needs_ his hair short. Needs it off of his ears, his shoulders, his neck. Does not let himself think about it; about how his reflection in the mirror looks, _feels_ disjointed, alien, deceitful. Like a mistake. About how freeing that first cut of the scissors had been.

But the answer is gathering in the back of his mind, regardless. Slipping into his dreams, his daydreams, his everyday thoughts, regardless.

Knuckles rap against the door. "Are you okay in there?"

"I'm-" He chokes, coughs; his tongue too thick, his mouth too dry, his eyes too wet. "I'm fine, mom."

"Are you crying?" His name slips past his mother's lips and a sob escapes his clenched teeth at the sound of it. The door handle rattles. "Please. Open the door, sweetheart."

The clatter of the scissors hitting the sink is muffled by years of hair. He stares at the silver blades pillowed in the black strands. Looks up at his reflection, blurred by tears. _What have I done?_ Fear settles heavy on his chest, increasing with each knock on the door. Fear, but not regret.

" _Please_." His mother's voice is desperate, scared. He squeezes his eyes shut at the raw emotion in it; he never, _never_ wants to be the cause of her pain. _So why did I do it? Because I'm selfish._ His fingers grope against the wood, find the doorknob. Twist.

They stare at each other's reflections in the mirror. He watches her hand come up to his hair, hesitate. Feels her soft, familiar fingers thread through his jagged hair, brush his scalp. "Are you hurt? Did you cut yourself?"

"No."

She tugs the strands; measuring, inspecting, studying. "Do you want it shorter?"

"I…" He closes his eyes, lets the tears fall, silent. Feels his chest loosen as the crippling fear is replaced by a sliver of hope.

"Like cousin Jin's?"

"Yes." The word slips past his lips without his permission, the truth of it as freeing as that first cut.

He sits on a stool in the kitchen, his mother singing a familiar lullaby as her steady hands guide the scissors so close the cold metal brushes his scalp.


	3. Name

He is fourteen. He paces the living room in long, lanky strides, all gangly arms and legs. Back and forth. Back and forth. His socked feet pad noiselessly over the carpet and the room's silence rings in his ears, blankets his shoulders, settles around his heart and squeezes. He wants to yell, to _scream_ , until the noise surrounding him matches the decibels of the chaos in his mind.

His mother watches him from her recliner, patient. Calm. Stoic. Everything that he is not, has never been. Not since the first time he felt detached, _apart_ from his body. And he cannot even remember how old he was, sometimes he thinks he has always, _always_ felt like this- like-

Her spoon clips against porcelain as she stirs her tea, and a final wall inside him breaks as the air fills with sound at last. He runs his fingers through the buzzed hair behind his ears, down his neck. Starts to speak into the weighty silence, to explain; tries to find the words in English. In Mandarin. Every combination sounds wrong to his ears as they stutter on his tongue, tumble past his lips. Nothing quite makes sense, quite fits, just like him-

"Sweetie." His mother's voice stills his restless feet, his restless tongue. But his heart continues its humming against the invisible vice in his chest. His thoughts continue to scream in his head, to press against the sharp edges of his mind. He closes his eyes against the pressure gathering behind them. "Whatever it is, you can tell me."

"I'm trying! It's so hard! I think- I know-" He feels soft, small hands envelop his own, feels them pull his away from his abused scalp, feels delicate fingers entwine with his long ones. Opens his stinging eyes to find his mother standing in front of him, looking up at him with love and concern. He is already so much taller than her. He is not used to looking down at her yet, feels like it is just one more way that his body has betrayed him.

She gives his hands a reassuring squeeze. He can almost feel her calmness cooling his flushed skin. "Breathe."

He exhales. "I'm a boy, mom."

He expects her to step back, to startle, but she only nods. "A boy."

He swallows. "Yes."

"What should I call you?"

Licks his lips. "My name is Zack."

...

Zack slides into the passenger seat and reaches for his seat belt, pausing when his mother's keychain in the ignition catches his eye. A replica California license plate with the name 'ZACK' dangles next to the house key. He looks from it to her, "why...?"

She brushes his bangs back. "To make sure I remember. I've been calling you by the wrong name for fourteen years, I don't want to do it again, Zack."


End file.
